


Orion

by mettaverse



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, alcohol /, character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 18:03:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12513132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mettaverse/pseuds/mettaverse
Summary: prompt: shiro is a famous musician fresh out of the hospital after an accident claimed his arm. depressed, he finds a video of youtuber lance singing one of his first songs





	Orion

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from tumblr! i'm gonna start posting them in a collection

When he first woke up and realized his arm was gone, all he could do was laugh.

Laugh at his high school teachers, laugh at his parents, laugh at his agent, laugh at every face that told him he’d be something special. That his hands were made for music, that his fingers could pluck out a melody no one else could replicate. He laughed until his throat was sore, until he felt blood bubble from his cracked lips and pretended that was the reason for his tears.

His mailbox was flooded with letters from fans; packages, pictures, hand written notes and beautiful poems. He threw away every single one.

He ignored his agent’s calls. Double locked his doors. Changed his phone number, deleted his Facebook, and smashed every guitar he owned until they were unrecognizable. Only splinters unworthy of firewood; just memories, just broken music notes wedged under his skin too deep for him to pull loose.  

It’s two weeks in when his house gets broken into. The window is smashed with a rock and he can’t bring himself to care; they could have his things, they could have his money, if they wanted to kill him, who was he to protest? A broken man with a broken dream.

“Get up.”

Shiro refuses. Closes his eyes, pretends his brother isn’t looming over him.

“I said _get up.”_

He squeezes his eyes tight tight tight tight-

The blankets are ripped off of him and he’s yanked from the bed onto the floor. Did Keith get stronger or did Shiro get weaker? He knows he lost weight but-

“Stand up.”

Shiro curls in a ball, makes himself as small as he feels and even then it’s not enough; he feels huge, a blemish on the floor, a stain that won’t come out. Keith grabs him by the hair and yanks him onto his feet, carries his weight as Shiro’s legs refuse to work.  “Get out of my house, Keith.” His voice is weak like the rest of him; shattered, strained, struggling for purchase. All he gets is a snort in response.  

Keith grunts and drags Shiro past the threshold of his room, pulls him like a ragdoll down the stairs. Keith bears his weight like Atlas bears the world; like he’s responsible for it, like he has no choice, like he was born for it. But that’s not right- he’s the little one, the youngest,  _this isn’t the way it goes._

He’s thrown down on the couch. A plate of Chinese food is shoved in his lap, piping hot. It’s his favorites and yet it all makes him sick, bile sneaking into the tears of his trachea. “I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t care.” Keith sits next to him and shoves a fork into his hand. It’s now that Shiro sees the blood on it; probably from the broken glass in his living room.

Shiro grits his teeth. “Keith-”

“Are you deaf? I said I don’t care. I don’t give a flying fuck. You haven’t eaten, you’ve lost weight, you look like  _shit.”_

Shiro lets out a laugh, twisted and ugly like the rest of him. “That’s what happens when you’re in a car crash, Keith.”

“You know what else happens? Your brother comes, sits on your chest, and holds your nose until you open your mouth and  _eat your sweet and sour chicken, asshole.”_ Shiro doesn’t move to eat so Keith grunts, “Dad bought your favorite whiskey and I’ll only give it to you if you eat.”

Shiro chews the inside of his cheek. “The Rittenhouse one?” Keith grunts an affirmative. He doesn’t think he can hold any food down. It’ll come up and burn his mouth, make him spend the majority of the night hunched over the toilet if he eats too much. But…he sighs. “I guess I could eat.”

Keith smiles for the first time that night.

**

Keith stays with him every single day.

Comes into his room every morning at 10 am and drags him by the hair until he stands up and wobbles down the stairs to eat breakfast and tries to keep it down. Doesn’t let him back into his room until he has a shower; doesn’t let him lay in the bed for more than an hour at a time before he’s back up and doing something to “distract himself.” Like he can distract himself from the phantom pains climbing up his nerve endings; like he can distract himself from the hollowness in his gut, the way his throat burns not with bile or screams but with the throbbing reminder of  _what it should be doing:_ not crying, not screaming, not laughing not groaning but  _singing._ Like a hunger digging its way into the meat of his throat, burning into his neck and up to his chin. It’s a reminder every single second he’s awake, each moment he’s sober.

Which is why his whiskey is locked away in Keith’s car because he can’t even get  _drunk_ without Keith throwing a fit.

It’s hard to type in his password with one hand but he manages it, refuses to ask for help. Keith looms, pretends that Shiro can’t see him in the corner of his eyes. He’s crippled, not blind. At least he has his sight going for him. So he can see how long his hair has gotten, see the new collection of scars on his body, on his  _face_. He’d love to see how many magazines want him on the cover now.

Maybe the glass should have gone into his eyes, too. Would’ve been a mercy.

He stares at YouTube. What do people even look at on YouTube, anyway? He’s been so out of touch with everything even before his accident; had too many concerts, gigs, interviews, photo shoots. “What’s a Vine?” he hears himself asking. “And why’s there so many videos with cats?”

Keith plops himself down next to him. “Are you complaining about videos of cats? Really? Mister most likely to have 20 cats by the time he’s 30?”

Shiro grunts. “I don’t have any cats.”

“Yet.”

Shiro bites the edges of his smile down. He really should look getting into cats; at least cats won’t break his window in the middle of the night and force feed him and  _hide his fucking whiskey._ Shiro’s scrolling down the front-page when one particular thumbnail stops him in his tracks.

A boy, around Keith’s age, smiles at the camera. Freckles are splattered across his curved nose, brown hair curly, unruly, and looking suspiciously like bedhead. Despite the fact Shiro can clearly see he’s in shark PJ’s he’s beautiful; high cheekbones and wide, blue eyes framed by thick lashes, perfect teeth trapping his bottom lip in a smile.

And then there’s the title.

“ _Orion- Takashi Shirogane. (Cover by LanceyLance)”_

He jumps to close the laptop but Keith’s faster holds the laptop open. “I went to high school with him.” His face is one of distaste. “Really fucking loud kid. Didn’t know he was still singing.”

Singing one of Shiro’s songs. Not a new one, not one that’s reached the billboards or even one he has a music video out for, but one from his SoundCloud days,  recorded on a shitty microphone in his parent’s basement. He forgot about this song.

Keith’s the one to click it with a grumbled, “This outta be good.”

The video starts with Lance sitting cross legged on his bed, fiddling with his guitar. He smiles, all perfect, white teeth on display.  _“Hi there.”_  His voice is smooth, practiced.  _“Come here often?”_ He winks and Keith groans.  _“So, as you guys can see, I just got out of bed. I found out that..”_ He clears his throat, chews on his lips. His voice isn’t practiced here, isn’t rehearsed; Shiro can hear how tight it is, how strained.  _“Fuck. I just- I’m sure by the time this is uploaded you guys would have already seen it on the news but- Shiro got in a car accident. The news says he’s okay, and I mean, of course he is, he has to be.”_ Right. Of course. He has to be. Shiro balls his hand into a fist.  _“I_ _know I_ _talk about it a lot and make jokes about it a lot and stuff but, guys, he really is my hero. When I was at my lowest and I found him I just…he made me feel…better, somehow? Like I wasn’t alone? And I know you guys feel the same way. He made me start up in music and he’s just- special to me, y'know? So, I know he’s okay, I know he’s fine, but I just really wanted to cover the first song I heard from him. It’s my favorite one.”_ He clears his throat and breathes in and flashes his smile at the camera one last time before he starts on the opening chords.

And suddenly Shiro can’t feel the pain in his arm. He can’t hear Keith make fun of Lance’s footie pajamas, can’t feel the cold air seeping through his broken window; when Lance sings, the scar across his face doesn’t feel as tight. Like a shot of morphine his falsetto pushes him down down down into the cushions of his seat and Shiro realizes with every breath Lance takes he could make Shiro do  _anything_ simply by opening his mouth. He doesn’t remember this song like this; doesn’t remember the tears it brought to his eyes, doesn’t remember if it had so many dips, so many whispered phrases. By the time Lance smiles and opens his eyes, Shiro doesn’t even remember the song is his. Only those freckles, that smile and closed eyes, the way Lance tipped his head to the sky. When the notes cease and his voice stops, Shiro feels cold, briefly wonders if it was always this  _freezing_ or if Lance’s voice was a flame, strong and beautiful and not nearly close enough.

Lance smiles at the camera and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy.  _“I ah, I really like that song,”_ he says like he didn’t just take a hammer to Shiro’s heart and bust it wide open.

He launches into the typical Youtube ending; follow and subscribe, comment the next song you’d like to see. Keith clears his throat next to him. “You know,” he says slowly, “you can always message him.”

“He probably doesn’t even-”

“He was president of the GSA in our school for four years.”

 _Oh. Good to know._ Shiro can feel his cheeks warm. “That’s not what I meant!” His voice cracks on the last word and he winces. “I meant-”  _He probably doesn’t even want to see me. He probably won’t want to hear from me after hearing how broken I am. He’s too good for me. I’m not enough._

Keith clasps his shoulder. “Shiro,” he says gently. “If you don’t message him I will do it myself in your name. I’ll tell him about how much money you spend on cosplays-”

“You wouldn’t-”

“Try me.” Keith raises an eyebrow and looks at the screen and back at Shiro’s red face. “C'mon. One message. Say thank you, compliment him, see where it goes from there, and I’ll let you have a glass of whiskey.”

Shiro pouts. “I’m not a dog you can bribe with treats you know.” Besides, he doesn’t need the promise of whiskey this time. “You think he’d…be happy to hear from me?”

“Shiro, he’d be so happy I’d  _feel it._ He’s obnoxious when he’s happy, it’d be insane and I’d hate you for it, but yeah, he’d be happy. And so will you.”

Shiro doesn’t bite down his smile this time. And for the first time in weeks, he agrees with Keith. He  _would_  be happy. “Fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: bluelioncub
> 
> twitter: mettacub


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